Claude
by Fyanna3
Summary: A short story of an assassin in Napoleonic France, highlighting different areas of Napoleon's rule.  An introspective look at an assassin's place and position during the rule of Napoleon, and his personal experiences.
1. Chapter 1 His Life

_"Arretez-vous!"_

_ A boy ran down the alley, his muddied face flushed with effort. His lungs groped for air, his chest heaving to power his frantic legs. The soldiers pursued, their fists raised at his attempt to escape. He did not stop._

_ He ran._

_ Ducking between brothels, and diving underneath carts and wagons of the impoverished was a difficult route to follow. The soldiers yelled and swore, but the nimble feet of a young boy of seventeen was slow to tire. And although they managed to hold the pursuit at first, his muddied face and ratty clothes blended with the district. Just outside the small peasant church the soldiers stopped, and they threw one last dirty glance into the crowd before departing._

_ The youth laughed, but it was too soon._

_ "Ah, there you are." A hand gripped the boy's shoulder, and he turned in shock. Standing before him was a general, his station revealed from his bold uniform._

_ "Do not struggle, boy, I do not wish to arrest you," he let go of the youth's shoulder, and grinned, "Instead, I want to ask you something."_

_ "What?"_

_ "Have you ever considered joining the army?"_

Jean Claude woke at sunset.

His candle was weak, its light faint when he lit the wick. However, the flame gave the small room a warm glow, and Claude was able to stand.

A humble room with only a few scattered pieces of furniture and a stove, it mimicked its tenant. Claude was strong and well built, but his hair and his face were free of the wistfulness of his youth, and replaced with the stoic calm of maturity. His eyes tightened at the corners as he examined the chest, and he gingerly lifted the lid to reveal his garb. Although the nineteenth century had brought with it a new era of clothing, the image of the Assassin remained the same.

As Claude pulled off his nightshirt, a distressed sight was uncovered. The entire right half of his body was a mural of pain. The remnants of skin that had swelled and shrunk from fire, scorched until the skin had been melted away were permanently etched into his body. And standing naked, the leftover scars hung like twisted wires of flesh, an intricate maze that bunched and tore his skin all over his right arm and hand, and bubbled and blistered over his torso, and culminating over his back, where the scars seem to have been carved in with a knife.

Claude pulled a white shirt over his head, and the marks disappeared under the fabric.

The hood fell over his face as he buttoned his white shirt. The armour and boots had changed, new technologies of warfare brought new defenses. For the Assassins, the rule of Napoleon's military left Paris in the hands of the templars, but the assassinss still held the alleys. Pulling a glove over his right hand and fastening his blade, Claude looked over to a dusty mirror on his wall. He glanced at his face, catching his own eyes for a moment. Although his whole body had been divided between the burnt and the unburnt, his face was still untouched, and he lingered on it.

Then he looked away.

_ "General Molyneux!" Jean called, his arm waving about his head. The effort wrinkled his pressed uniform, and Molyneux laughed._

_ "Calm down, Jean! Save the energy for the enemy!" Dropping from his horse and smoothing out his moustache, the General surveyed the scene: the desert was a barren place, but the Nile was a refreshing site. After a long expedition, they had finally arrived._

_"Egypt!" General Molyneux cried out to his battalion, "The wonders of thousands of years hide within this sand, but along with these mysteries lie the bloodthirsty rats who we call our enemy!" The men whooped and a hearty laugh followed. Molyneux continued, "Drink and eat well, friends, for we will face many challenges here. But remember, we live to serve France and her general, Napoleon!"_

_ Jean raised his hand to a salute, and the battalion followed. Molyneux returned it, and they went back to their meal._

_ "We will drive these vermin into the caves from which they came," he hissed, and turned to Jean, "And you will be there with me, boy, and we will make sure they do not question the might of the French army!"_

_ "I live to serve him," Jean replied, his hand over his heart, "and will die for him if God wills."_


	2. Chapter 2 Was

The sky was a muffled scarlet when Claude emerged. He stepped out into the alley, covered with grime and slick with mildew. Reaching behind him, Claude gently shut the small, cracked door, and it silently fell to rest in the frame.

Looking up between the houses, he saw the glimmer of the bloodied sky. He shook his head and pulled out a small blue scarf, tying it around his waist. The colour was a sunken blue, and it seemed to swell like an ocean when it rippled with movement.

A small woman carrying a basket of oranges passed the alley, and Claude caught her eye, but when she peered down the steps between the buildings, she saw only a subtle wave of blue.

Night came upon fast. Autumn was in full swing, only a selection of decaying leaves still grasped their branches, desperately clutching the bare bark. Claude ascended to the roofs of Paris, and he turned to face the city.

A few streetlamps were lit by weary men, but the wind was quick to blow them out again.

Claude began along the tiles.

_General Molyneux sat in his tent, his sword laid on his thighs. He drew his hand along the surface of the blade, the metallic glint catching his eye and bringing a smirk to his bearded face._

_ Jean sat opposite him._

_ "I called you here," Molyneux began, "because I trust you."_

_ Jean nodded._

_ "Our next battle will be at impossible odds, and it's likely we will not return home," Molyneux sighed, and lowered his head, "I hate to say it, but this is the truth." He paused, and Jean nervously flicked his eyes to the general, then back to the ground. "But, I think there is a way for us to leave – alive."_

_ "How?"_

_ "We need to distract them," Molyneux pondered, "somehow, just to keep them busy for a few moments."_

_ "I can do that!"_

_ "But how could we set it up? Perhaps if you were to light a fire; that would be enough to lead them astray, if only for a few moments."_

_ "I will bring flint, and light the fire upon your command."_

_ "A perfect idea! But how will I do so..."_

_ "You could fight alongside me, and when the time is right, call my name!"_

_ "Fantastic!" Molyneux exclaimed, "And then I will run and kill their captain while they stand bewildered! Excellent, I knew I could count on you, Jean."_

_ Jean smiled, "Anything for you, General!"_

_ Molyneux stood, and Jean followed suit. Then, turning to exit the tent, Molyneux said, "You know, if I had had a son, I would have wanted him to be like you."_

_ Jean grinned, "Sir!"_

_ "I knew I could trust you, boy," he smiled, "see you at dawn."_

_ And with a swift sweep of his arm, Molyneux left the tent._

_ Jean remained, his eyes glowing with pride._

The church was cold.

Empty, silent and dark, the stone walls stood between the outside world and the cave within. A few windows shone with moonlight, giving the room a soft glow of white.

Claude dropped down behind the altar, entering through the abandoned bell tower. The rope swung as he landed, swaying back and forth as a pendulum. Then, slowly rising, Claude stared out into the shadows.

They appeared.

Three assassins, garbed in white, emerged from the nave. They drew forth to Claude, and he nodded in greeting.

They bowed.

"Master," the first spoke, his voice a youthful male, "any news of Napoleon's _arm__é__e?_"

"He heads to Russia," the tallest replied, his deep tone echoing in the church, "I hear he plans to take the capital city from Tsar Alexander."

"He's right," Claude affirmed.

"What a fool," the youth murmured.

"You are quick to judge, Lucien," the final figure interjected, her sweet voice soft against her comrades, "Napoleon holds the piece of Eden."

"So it has been confirmed then, Marie?" he retorted.

Claude intervened, "I have had news, and it is. Napoleon holds the apple."

The three went quiet.

The largest spoke again, his voice a tremor, "We knew that long ago,"

"It still needed to be confirmed, Marceau," Lucien huffed.

"Think about it, Luc," he continued, "An army of tens of thousands that finds victory all over Europe. A leader who has the tactical skill of ten men, and the sharp memory of twenty, and the arrogance to take on Russia," Marceau shook his head.

"It's true," Marie agreed.

Claude sighed and leaned on the altar, "Now, we face a far greater force than we expected."

"And a difficult road ahead," Marceau finished.

"But one thing still remains the same, our mission," Claude looked upon the group, glancing up towards their faces. Marceau's deep brown beard curled around his chiselled face, the physique of generations of blacksmiths. His deep set amber eyes were lit like coals, thoughts burning beneath them. Turning to Lucien, he returned Claude's look with a hard stare, but his brown eyes soon crumbled down to a concerned glance, his beardless face carelessly dirty and his blond locks drooping over his forehead.

And finally, his eyes rested on Marie. She returned his gaze, her blue eyes softly lit by the moonlight. He could see her brown hair under her hood, soft and bundled up, and her eyes made him uneasy.

He blurted out, "What about Fréderic Dupont?"

"I located him," Luc chimed in, "He's currently at the courthouse near Notre Dame, and he will be presiding over the court there for the coming week."

"He is suspiscious, though," Marceau warned, "He has been careful to stay indoors, and only leaves the courthouse upon necessity. He will be easy to find, but his residence is a barracks. Guards at every door, with archers and gunmen along the roof."

"And spies in the streets," Marie added.

"Then we must find out more," Claude concluded, "Luc, you shall bribe a herald and find out the time and days for all the cases this week. Marceau, I need you to scout the place, search every nook and cranny you can find; we need to enter that building quickly, and leave immediately as soon as he is dead. And Marie,"

She met his eye.

"Marie," Claude repeated, "You will stay anonymous until further notice."

All three bowed, and as quickly as they had appeared, they withdrew into the darkness, and left Claude's sight.

Claude sat down on a bench, looking up towards the altar. It was still lit by the moonlight, and the calm of the empty church soothed him. Silence.

Then Marie returned.


	3. Chapter 3 Once

"Claude,"

_ "General! General!" Jean cried his eyes stinging from the venomous smoke. His voice was lost, however, in the chaos of battle. Shrieks of men were stabbed with fear, and the taut screech of metal upon metal created a metallic cacophony. The acidic smell of hot, spilt blood oozed in the air, mixed with ash, causing Jean to suffocate._

_ "Capitaine!" wheezed one of the soldiers, his eyes carved out with knife wounds. Jean howled in fright at the empty sockets, his body recoiling at the sight. Stretching out his hand, the soldier made one last attempt to grasp his life. But it was futile._

_ His body fell, and Jean saw the sword, impaled in his back and splitting the spinal cord._

_ "General!" Jean quivered his voice cracking as a distant thunder sprayed sand onto his body. Jean choked, but his cough was dry and made his neck convulse as it searched for air. And through all the sweat, nausea, gunpowder and salty, slick blood was the sight of General Molyneux stumbling up a sand dune away from the battlefield._

_ Jean tried to call out, but his voice had run dry and only a hoarse whisper came from his throat. The sand and smoke filled his lungs, and his coughing began again. Behind him, the smouldering heat of the fire leapt towards him, his legs at its mercy. He gripped his voice one last time, and he cried, "General!"_

_ Molyneux turned around and squinted into the fire. Jean's breath escaped him, and for a moment the General seemed to see him and recognize him. Jean waited._

_ Molyneux ran._

_ His voice gone, Jean's sobs caused his body to quake. The fire was approaching, and he could feel the billowing waves of heat. His body sweated and bled, and the roar around him only dulled as he was finally engulfed by it._

_ The fire ate away his flesh, biting it with thousands upon thousands of teeth of broken shards of glass. He screamed as the jagged points were thrust into his skin and slowly dragged down. His muscles stretched between his joints, and he felt his bone exposed to the smoke, ash and sand._

_ And then it was all gone; replaced with a sullen black._

"Claude," Maria repeated, her tone concerned.

Claude was startled into attention. He became rigid as he took in his surroundings, but recognizing the old church and its deep navy blues, he sighed.

"Marie,"

She sat beside him on the worn bench, its wood creaking under her despite her lightness. Dust floated in the moonbeams. "Why do you refuse me?"

"You are young, and I am old," he groaned, "very old."

"That doesn't matter," she protested.

"It does when you are yet twenty-two."

"You are wrong!" she hissed.

He remained silent, and she waited.

"I have known you two years," she begged, "and you know I speak the truth."

"You have known me for two years out of thirty-one. And by that amount, you barely know me."

Her eyes became slits in frustration, and she duplicated his silence. Claude looked down at his hands, one within a glove, the other bare. He laced his fingers together. Marie observed his movements: his calloused hand stoking the other, his eyes dripping under thought, and the soft shift of his weight causing him to lean over onto his knees and curve his back.

She relaxed.

"I may not know your past," she accepted, "But I am in the present, and so are you."

He did not reply.

Marie removed her hood, letting the fabric catch at her shoulders and droop down her back. Her face was soft, but her eyes were bright. The swirling hair on her head drifted around her as she pulled off her glove and gingerly rested her hand on his.

Claude stood.

"You will stay anonymous," he commanded, "until we meet again,"

Marie watched the soft ripple of blue disappear into the ocean of shadows around it.


	4. Chapter 4 That

_Jean's body ached._

_ His eyes opened, but the lids had swelled. However, he could still see._

_ And he saw._

_ Before the field was Napoleon Bonaparte, sitting on top of a white war horse. Its nostrils flared as it took in the sickly scent of blood and sweat. It stomped its blood-caked hooves and tried to veer away from the battlefield, but Napoleon took the reins and yanked it back to attention._

_ Behind him was a discreet entourage._

_ "Quel surprise," he murmured, his brow wrinkled in frustration under the proud bicorn hat, with its tricorne cockade._

_ "Je suis d_é_sole," related the lieutenant beside him, on a smaller horse, "I did not think it would be so...messy."_

_ "Where is Molyneux?" Napoleon shouted, his voice a cannon._

_ "Sir,"_

_ Jean cast his eyes to the right. There stood General Molyneux, his waistcoat splattered with mud and his hair in disarray. Napoleon looked down the bridge of his nose at him with stern eyes, calculating his appearance._

_ "You will not speak unless you are addressed, Molyneux," he hissed, "especially after this catastrophic result you display before me,"_

_ Molyneux retreated, lowering his gaze and clutching his General's hat in his chest. Napoleon whipped his head to the battlefield, his gaze directed right at Jean. Jean's body, numb with pain, suddenly ached with fear. He had not moved, but somehow he felt Napoleon knew he was alive._

_ "Bring me the chest!" he commanded. Out of the corner of Jean's eye, a small soldier appeared with a brown case. Napoleon waited, and the soldier slowly brought it forward. He shook as he held it up, and Napoleon snatched it from his hands. Lifting the lid, a sharp beam of light shot out from the box._

_ Jean watched in awe as Napoleon lifted out what appeared to be a ball of fire, with embers glowing as bright as the sun. Napoleon held the object up above him, and its rays bathed the sand dunes in an eerie, unearthly light. Jean shivered as it poured over his limbs, feeling a strange sensation of attraction and repulsion._

_ "This," Napoleon thundered, his voice carrying along the dunes, "This is God! And with it in my hands, I AM GOD!"_

Claude walked along the cobblestones. Under the night sky, the Seine sparkled. During the day it was a bog of human waste and dirt, but with the cover of night the corruption was hidden away.

Only a few peasants lurked within the alleyways. Claude could hear their drunken amble, or their wearied stride, far before he was in their earshot. The only presence he cast was the soft tide of blue that drowned in the darkness behind them.

Claude approached Pont Neuf, the oldest bridge over the Seine. It stood over the water, gazing at its reflection in the moonlight, archaic patterns lining its figure.

Dropping over the side of the wall lining the river, Claude reached his foot down into a small notch. Then, continuing down, he descended towards the base of the bridge. He could smell the water, its stink inflating his nose as his hands guided him along the stones. Then, his hand gripping a final ledge, he pulled his body up and stood.

"Bonjour, Claude," called a deep, lusty voice.

Claude turned to the woman, her body large and curved. Her bosom was tightly constricted by a corset, and her hips swayed under her dress.

"Danielle," he replied.

"I hear you are after _le juge_," she laughed, her fat fingers resting on her hips.

"I am," he acknowledged, "but that is not why I am here,"

"_Je sais_, you are after _Julien, oui?"_

Claude's eyes hardened, "How do you know him?"

_"Je le connais,_ I know him from many, many years ago."

"Tell me," he asserted, "Is he in Paris?"

"Not yet, but soon," she smiled coyly.

"When?"

"Soon," she winked.

_Jean fell back into a dreamless, sleepless state. He was not awake, but not asleep, and he wandered through his mind under a blindfold, reaching his hands out to find some kind of door. However, it evaded him, and he continued to search in a hopeless stumble._

_ When he awoke, he saw a woman. Her limbs were the colour of brown sugar, and her hair was a cascade of black coffee. Leaning over a basin of water, she lifted a white cloth. It dripped with water as she placed it on his leg, and it cooled the resonating heat under his flesh._

_ "Ah," she spoke, her deep brown eyes catching his, "You have awoken."_

_ Jean gazed up at her, almost in a trance as his weak body struggled to keep him alert._

_ "Drink," she whispered, lifting a second damp cloth to his lips. He sucked at the fabric, the water quenching his thirst, and his voice._

_ "Merci," he said._

_ "What a strange language you speak," she chuckled, her hand coming to rest on his brow. She stroked his hair. He wanted to ask her questions: who was she, where he was, and what had happened. But as her palm caressed his feverish skin, her cold, wet fingers eased him and relaxed his thoughts. He let his head roll to the side, and she felt along his temple, then his chin, and finally his neck. Jean closed his eyes._

_ Days passed. She left his bedside only for a few brief moments during the day, and she slept by his bed at night. His linen sheets were always kept clean, and his burns were constantly washed, cooled, and nursed. Jean drifted between a deep sleep, and a weak consciousness, waking only to drink. Yet despite the mysteries surrounding the woman, he did not ask her who she was. There was serenity in her anonymity. And her few words and quiet demeanour gave her an air of peace and charity. Her identity was irrelevant._

_ Sometimes, during the night, Jean would wake up. He would call out, his body in a fit of terror. She would rush to him, and whisper in his ears. Finding his way back to reality, he would soon be calm once more, and his chest would deflate in exhaustion. Then, her tired eyes soaked with relief, she would sing him a lullaby until he fell back asleep._

_ He regained his strength slowly and in small steps. Being able to sit up for a few hours, or to eat by himself, were some of the ways he felt life return to his body and his mind. And at this point, he would sometimes feign sleep. Waiting for his caregiver to rest, he watched her tirelessly attend to him, and then stop only in the early hours of the morning. And as he watched her body succumb to slumber, he saw a beauty he had never seen before._

_ Love._

* * *

**Before we move on with the story, thank you to all my readers for your continued support. Also, I'd like to take a moment to thank Master Assassin Darkstorm and CreativeChica39 for their reviews and thought; I appreciate your continued updates and comments.**

**In addition, I have had a reader express concern over a confusion to whether "Jean" and "Claude" are two different characters. JEAN AND CLAUDE ARE THE SAME CHARACTER, in fact, our main character is noted as "Jean Claude" in chapter one (this was a hint). The reason to why I am referring to him as Jean in the past, and Claude in the present is for you to find out and interpret! Hope you enjoyed this installment, and see you in Chapter 5!**


	5. Chapter 5 Of

**I apologize for the delay in releasing this chapter. I was very busy during the holidays, and I hope that they were pleasant for you as well. So, my readers, enjoy this next installment, and I hope my updates will be more regular from now on. However, I will be away between January 14 and 24, so unless I have a chance, the story may remain untouched during this time.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Claude opened his eyes.

His room greeted him once again, the cube of space asleep.

He pulled himself up. His joints creaked, and his brow wrinkled as a distant headache seemed to swell in his subconscious. The dream, with its visions of her, fell from his view and faded back into the past.

He paused.

A knock came at the entrance. Claude fell into a hush, and he gingerly moved to door, placing his back along the wood. Then, with a gentle click, the knob turned. The door was pushed open, along with Claude, and he waited.

The visitor entered. Claude jumped, and his blade fell.

"Be still," Marceau soothed, his hand catching Claude's arm.

"Marceau!" Claude realized with a start, pulling his blade away. Marceau shut the door, and Claude's eyes narrowed, "Why have you come here?"

"The work has been done," Marceau replied.

Claude hesitated.

"I came here because we have not time to waste, master. Forgive me,"

Claude watched Marceau bow, his dark black hair and beard encasing his muscular face. A grim look cast a shadow behind his eyes.

"Come," Claude invited, his hand gesturing to the chair at the desk, "Tell me,"

Marceau shook his head, "_Le juge_ is no simple target, Claude. He knows about us, and he knows we are coming,"

"This has happened before," Claude commented, sitting on his bed.

"_Oui, mais..."_ Marceau mumbled, his voice trailing off. His body slumped over the wooden desk, and the wrinkles of age creased on his face. Claude reached out his hand, and placed it on Marceau's shoulder.

"We will succeed," Claude affirmed, "Your family is safe."

The barracks was cold that night.

A beggar hobbled by the rear entrance of the fortress, his head sheltered by a hood as he searched for coins. The guard opened his mouth, inhaling in order to scare off the beggar with a sharp warning; but the sound never came, as a hand covered his mouth, and a blade slipped into his throat.

On the roof, a rifleman's boots clicked along brittle tiles. An owl hooted in the distance as he stopped to observe the west end, his eyes peering over the skyline of Paris. But he failed to see two hands clasping the eaves beneath his feet, one palm reaching out and curling its fingers around his ankle.

And in the open square in the centre of the barracks, two men stood with rifles on their shoulders. The hush of night was thick, and the faint bark of a dog went unheard. A shadow fell across the path below, a silent flicker of movement. It caught the eye of one of the guards, and he peered curiously at its figure. But as he looked up to investigate, the shadow engulfed them, and their bodies collapsed.

Claude stepped into the light, his blue sash tumbling down his left flank. Lucien kneeled by the two guards, carefully withdrawing his blades. Marceau appeared in the square beside Claude, who turned up and saw Marie standing on the roof.

Claude nodded, and they disappeared.

Claude entered the barracks, the hallways lit by wane candlelight. He drifted through the maze, his eyes keen for guards. Few of them even turned when he passed, and those who did noticed only a subdued, curled blue in the shadows of the walls.

Time slipped away as the moon ascended.

"Frederic!" the woman shrieked, her fingers clawing at the floorboards.

"Cry out, Eva, cry out," the man cackled, standing as a spire over her, a whip in his wrinkled fingers, "You will find only justice in this house!"

"You monster!" she screamed as he snapped the whip at her again, its tail lashing for her back. The prostitute tried to crawl to the door, but Frederic's boot fell on the hem of her dress.

"You thought I would lay with you," he hissed as he raised his arm, his tone climbing to a yell, "You thought I would be corrupted by your evil ways, but I will not!" The whip cracked. "You temptress! You whore! I will free this city from the underworld within it, and I will hang your mutilated body at my door to show what happens to those who follow the devil!"

"Stop! Please!" the girl cried, her back splitting under the whip, "Have mercy!"

"Silence!" He roared, and the whip slashed at her face, ripping across her cheek.

Claude kicked the door, causing it to crash to the floor. _Le_ _juge_ looked up, his face becoming a scowl as he recognized the hood.

"You!"

"Fight me, Dupont," Claude challenged in a deep, daring voice. He drew a thick blade from his waist, "leave the girl!"

"Ha!" he retorted, and whipped the girl again. Her shrieks reached a deafening pitch, and Claude threw his dagger at the judge's hand. It missed, skinning his forehand like a fish. The judge howled.

"You will die for this, assassin!"

Claude rushed at the judge, his fist meeting bone as it collided with the judge's chin. But a blade crept into Dupont's hands, and it swiped at Claude's flesh. Without a blade, Claude was forced to jump away as the judge recklessly swung his blade, a dance of battle.

At the other side of the room, the prostitute laid on the ground, blood pulsing out of her wounds with each heartbeat. It trailed along the floor, and a puddle oozed around her. Claude saw his chance.

Ducking from another offense, Claude swivelled on the balls of his feet, the judge fell forward, his weight unbalanced. Claude thrust his fist into his belly, the blow forcing the air to burst from Dupont's lungs, and simultaneously tossing the weight back. Stumbling, Dupont instinctively stepped backwards, into the puddle of blood, and slipped.

As his body fell, Claude seized the neck, his muscles tight as he strangled the man. Then, as the body crashed to the floor, Claude followed it and forced all his weight onto the neck, his hand thrusting Dupont's chin in the opposite direction. The sudden crack of bone ended the fight, and Claude watched as the judge's eyes went blank, then cold.

The blood soaked the floor and the bodies, its scarlet sheen and sickening, salty smell overwhelming Claude's senses. He stood and found his blade, pulling it from the wooden wall. In the distance, he heard the clashing of metal and the shouts of guards. It would be mere seconds before they found the scene.

Desperately, Claude kneeled to the prostitute, but it was beyond late. Her body had sunken under the loss of blood, then swelled as it soaked it up again. He signed, then hurried to the desk in the room, yanking out the drawers and searching the documents. Claude found nothing, and the noise of battle grew closer.

Then he felt it: parchment. In his palm rested old, leathery parchment bearing a wax seal of the templar cross. He thrust the paper into his belt, along with a few other records with the same mark, but a more recent date. Claude turned to leave, but a small letter caught his eye. In the corner was a name.

_Julien._

He quickly snatched the letter, slipping it under his vest. Just as his hand came to his side, Marceau appeared.

"We must leave!" he panted, "The window!"

As Claude climbed the sill, Lucien and Marie came into the room with beads of sweat dripping down their faces. Their wide eyes looked to Claude. He gestured, and they jumped.

All four came, Claude the first and Lucien the last. The guards shouted in the barracks, and bells tolled in alarm, but the assassin's had already left. Claude whistled short and sharp, and all four ducked into separate alleyways, and into the night.

The moon rested in the sky above the rooftops, and the silence of night was shattered. Yet, from the ceiling above came the first flurries of snow.


	6. Chapter 5Extension

The letter was kept secret.

When the assassins gathered, Claude revealed only the parchments. They observed them, and a meeting was arranged in a month's time. Marceau took his family to the south, Lucien returned to Normandy and his mother, and Marie faded into the snow. Claude left for his small room, and beneath Claude's shirt was the letter: the letter from _Julien._

Guards swarmed the streets in the following weeks. The poor district became a hive. Scouts were posted on all corners, generals on every street, and a frequent march came every half hour. The peasants locked their doors, and boarded their windows for fear of suspicion.

To be considered suspicious under the rule of Napoleon was a fatal sentence.

Claude opened the letter on the fifth day.

_ Cher Fr__é__deric,_

_ I am well, and I thank you for your letter. However, you must never mention me, for I am dead to France. You know the consequences that would follow if I were found alive. I died in Egypt, long ago, and I still rest there- I am no longer that of whom you speak._

_ But putting aside these dark greetings, there is news. Russia is powerful, and we know it. Napoleon has become too powerful, his waistcoat filled with the illusions of Eden. He foolishly believes Russia is at his mercy, that the attack would be finished in the mere summer months. This cannot happen. Even the apple has its limitations. The order must remove him, but his image is imbedded in the minds of the people. Despite his arrogance, he has a keen eye; he knows his sudden death would create uproar, and reveal our order. He saw what happened to Louis when he failed us, but we had the people on our side. Removing him will not be a simple task._

_ The order has called you, Fr__é__deric, and you must answer. We will be meeting on the eve of the New Year, in the Panth__é__on. Take care to burn this letter, for we only want the graves to hear us when we meet._

_ May the Father of Understanding Guide us,_

_ Julien_


	7. Chapter 6 Someone

Winter was upon Paris. Snow fell silently, but it fell quickly. It seemed to creep on the beggars, freezing them as they slept. The city fell out of time as snow gathered, for people were too frightened of the sleeping dead left in the alleys. No one went out, no one came in.

Claude waited. His life became a routine. He exercised his body, to protect it from falling into a winter sleep. He would do an old soldier's drill that stressed his arms and his legs, but many times did Claude go too far. Age was no longer a mere number.

The month dragged on, November clinging to Claude's ankles. His only interruption was a weekly supply of potatoes left outside his door. Many times had he waited in his past, but the small room still created a shadow over him that he was desperate to escape.

But one thing kept Claude alive.

A candle sat on the timber of the desk, its wax slowly falling into the catch below. Claude's scarred hand wrestled with his hair, searching. Shadows fell along the letter as Claude's pen tapped idly: the only break in the silence.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

"Damn!" he seethed, his eyes darting between the words. Lines, circles and notes were scribbled along the surface, highlighting choice letters and phrases. Claude's back curved as he slouched over the paper, his waistcoat stretching in its seams. The pen tip tapped, his body shifted, and the night wore on.

"Julien, Julien..." he mumbled, underlining the name. He fought the desire to crush the paper and toss it aside. Hours passed, and the pen tapped.

At midnight the pen tip caught the wood.

Suddenly, the candle light flickered. Its small flame leapt, and something jumped on the paper. Claude peered curiously at it, then to the candle flame. He gently waved his hand, causing the flame to dance. The letter leapt once more.

Fire.

Claude vaulted from the chair, its frame falling to the floor with a crash. He raised the letter, his burnt fingers tinkling. He looked to the candle, and then he brought the document to its mouth. It licked the corner, tasting the material. Catching it alight, the flame greedily clung to the edge and began its ascent.

Claude stared, and it appeared.

_Meet me on a fortnight before the New Year in the tombs of our fathers. Take the route from Notre Dame, using the door in the tower. Do not be seen._

_ Molyneux_

As Claude read the words, the fire engulfed them. He was stunned as the touch of flame kissed his fingertips. Agony lurched from his nerves as it touched the burns. Claude released the paper, and it fell to the floor. It crumbled under the fire. His boot fell on it and the letter was lost, but Claude remained.

And so did Molyneux.

_Jean healed._

_ The woman's care and the small, slow miracle of the human body enabled him to soon stand. Then, he began to walk. And with time, he began to talk._

_ The place where he had been resting was foreign. Arabia, he thought, but he was never quite sure where he was. All he knew was that he was away from the terrors of battle, the betrayal of Molyneux and the terrible might of Napoleon._

_ Bending down to gather water in a jug, the woman looked up to Jean. Under the sun, her skin's shade deepened to a deep, warm brown. Jean sweated from the bold heat, but her body seemed to flourish. Her eyelashes swept over her eyes, and they looked to him. She offered the jug._

_ Kneeling, he grasped the clay. It was hot, and his burnt hand jolted in shock. The jug fell, and precious water slipped away into the mud. Jean turned, clutching his hand, and he stared at it in fear and in sadness: its permanent reminder pulsing in his flesh._

_ The woman stroked his shoulders, and she whispered her lush language in his ear. Its deep, long flow seeped into him, and he faced her. She waited._

_ He offered her his wound._

_ She tended it._

_ He kissed her._

_ She embraced him._

_ Jean sat with a child. He cooed to it, his French weaving intricate tales and soft endings. The babe lay asleep, lost in the words of its father._

_ The woman sat beside him, her head resting on his thigh. Her hand drifted along his arm as he cradled the child, feeling the blisters that had mended long ago. She travelled the familiar maze, ending on his hand which held the child's head._

_ Putting the child down on a blanket, Jean's face took on an expression as it turned to her. It was similar to a smile, but fell heavier. The shape of his mouth curved upwards, but his lips trembled. His eyes seemed to swell, their wetness highlighting a deep, tumbling blue. And as his hand caressed her cheek, his lips touched her brow. Gratitude and bliss fell from his eyes._

Claude watched it burn.


	8. Chapter 7 Else

_Fire._

_ Jean's lungs heaved with the smoke as he crashed through the debris. The home crumbled and was crippled, on its knees before the flames. The heat surged, and waves of it billowed over his body, but Jean did not stop. He could not stop._

_ Despite the piercing agony of his scars, he continued forward. His body quaked in pain, and he yelled in rage. He would not let the fire defeat him. Beyond his view, he knew she was there. He knew she was there. The fire would not defeat him._

_ The babe shrieked._

_ He hurled himself through the flames. Turning, he saw her. Her legs caught under the collapsed roof, she desperately cradled their child to her breast. When she saw Jean, he was shocked by the terror in her eyes: the vivid horror._

_ He would not let the fire defeat him._

_ Pushing forward, he heaved the beam aside. The babe screeched, its voice hitting a breathless note. She reached for him, her body crawling along the floor. Her legs lay helpless, the limbs contorted from the beam's weight. Jean stretched his arms forward, ready to grasp her frail body and the bundled child, but it was too late._

_ Jean saw her eyes._

_ Jean saw her hands._

_ Jean felt the babe._

_ Then the roof fell._


	9. Chapter 8 And

_ Jean was defeated._

_ When he found her body, he wailed. The sound was metallic. It stung the air._

_ He wept. His dry, broken lips mumbled sweet nothings to her deaf ears. And his hands, with burnt palms, caressed her soft skin now black and blistered, distorted in shape and in image. Yet despite the distortions, he touched her as tenderly as she had touched him; his swollen fingers brushed over her beautiful face, which had become foreign under fire's tongue._

_ A man appeared behind him._

_ "Let us free her, friend."_

_ "No!" Jean roared, instinctively clutching her body to his chest. His eyes were dry and red, and his body heaved. His grasp tried to pull her back to life._

_ "She must rest."_

_ "Not yet!" Jean wailed, "Not yet!"_

_ The man placed a hand on Jean's shoulder._

_ Her body was cremated._

_ Jean watched fire take her from his sight._

_ Fire._

_ When the ashes had been cast, taken by the wind, the man turned to Jean._

_ "You know who did this."_

_ Jean remained silent._

_ "I will not force you," the man offered his hand, "but if you wish, you can come with me. I will take you home, to France, and my family will take care of you."_

_ Jean looked up, his eyes cracked and his face suddenly aged._

_ "I am Marceau. May I have your name?"_

_ "Je.." he began, but Jean hesitated._

_ "Je suis Claude."_

"Claude,"

He looked up from his bed, the form collapsed from use. Marceau was at the door.

"You do not guard yourself,"

Claude remained silent.

"And yet, you do," Marceau concluded, and shut the door.

"Why did you take me," Claude asked, his voice a stranger for the past month, "on that day?"

"That day..." Marceau whispered, his mind collecting his memories, "when she passed."

Claude waited.

"I will not say," Marceau began, "that it wasn't a selfish decision. We were short of men-and our order was falling. But, there was something else...

Maybe it was how I found you, with the way your body had been wounded and your life taken away. Or perhaps it was the way you stood when her ashes dispersed, with your eyes set somewhere far off. You didn't want to live, I could tell. If I had not found you, you would have killed yourself. Am I wrong?"

Claude did not answer.

"Do you ever wonder how I was able to find you, even when I saw the ruins of your home from far away? I'm not even sure why I went looking for survivors since the destruction was so widespread in that village.

But then I think again, and I would say you were given something, Claude. You have always been able to live. You have always been able to survive. I may not know you before that day, but I know your scars. Only a divine hand could have spared you from those wounds, and that disaster of that day."

Claude sighed, "I do not want to survive, Marceau."

"But you do," he concluded, and stood again. His glove reached for the door, and he looked up, "Don't think I do not understand; if my family were to die, I could not go on. Yet, I think there is a greater purpose for you, and once you find it, you may find your answer as to why I found you."

Marceau left.

Claude stayed.


	10. Chapter 9 He

Paris stood in winter.

And within it stood another: Claude.

The door closed on November, and he walked through the alley. A blue chord was strung behind him, trailing from his waist; it left a chill note in the air.

He disappeared into the evening.

The church had been buried beneath the snow, and when Claude entered it, silence hushed him. He felt the movement of the rope behind him, still swaying from side to side, but otherwise the building rested in a deep sleep. Claude moved to the altar.

Placing his hand on it, he felt the stone. It was cold.

Marie appeared.

"Marie," he acknowledged.

"Claude," she began, drawing a breath.

"No,"

She hesitated.

"Master," called Lucien, his figure emerging from the dark. Marceau followed behind.

They bowed.

He began.

"Time has erased our identities, but our work is far from done," Claude faced the group and waited, "We have a new target. His name is _Blanchard."_

"_P_é_re Blanchard,_" Marceau confirmed.

"A priest?" Lucien wondered.

"A bishop," Marie answered.

"Either way, we need information," Claude continued, "let us find it."

Notre Dame inhaled the chill of winter into its stone lungs: a deep breath that caressed its pillars and swept through its body.

The monks sung. Their full, bass voices resonated in a lush echo. The deep tones sunk in the church as they proceeded, heads bowed in humble prayer.

Candlelight wavered, and shadows followed.

The monks' procession entered the main hall, and their chant flooded the knave. At the altar stood a bishop, his eyes looking over the monks' heads with a line of sight above the humble prayers.

The monks kneeled.

Shadows climbed the walls, resting behind the flickering lights.

"A sad sight," the bishop sighed, his many chins rolling over one another, "The best congregation of France? _Non, je ne pense pas..._"

"Enrolment in the academy is down," relayed a small, slight monk behind the bishop's large girth, "Napoleon takes our young boys to war, not to church."

"He forgets his place," the bishop huffed, his costly crimson robes stretched over his width.

Shadows watched the bishop pace past the monks, his enormous size hindering his speed. The small monk followed behind him, rattling on.

"However we have been able to make progress with the poor,"

"Damn the poor!"

"Our library is growing, as well, with the ability to reproduce books at a greater speed,"

"Damn the books!"

"And our Christmas service will soon be held, with you as our honorary guest,"

"Damn the service! What sort of message are we sending to Paris?" the bishop boomed, his hands thrown into the air, "A pitiful congregation that kneels to the poor and sits quietly reading all day, where is the awe? Where is the uniform? Where is the power!" His voice leapt through the church and cut off all sound, an abrupt silence falling over the shadows, causing them to shift and exchange a glance.

"Your grace," the monk sputtered, his pale complexion becoming rosy, "I did not mean to anger you so,"

"Be quiet!" he snuffed, his nose lifting into the air, "I've had enough of this. I will be making the arrangements for the Christmas service tonight, and I don't want your miserable brothers disturbing me. Eat your dinner, then go to the dormitories! This church must be quiet for me to think in it."

"Of course," the monk nodded and bowed, "I will make the arrangements."

"We will be an example for Paris," the bishop dictated, "We will be a single body, an obedient, ignorant servant to the Father. That is how we are meant to be: subservient."

The monk nodded weakly, his eyes darting from side to side.

"Go!" Blanchard bellowed, and the monk stepped back in alarm. Then, with a quick gesture, the monks dispersed from the cloisters and trickled out of the church.

The shadows followed.

"He will be attending the Christmas service at Notre Dame, and he will be busy preparing for the next two weeks," Marceau began. Claude listened intently, " We must eliminate him after the service, and do so quietly. A conspicuous murder would be destructive to the people."

"We could poison him," Marie suggested.

"Poison is unreliable, if he survives a day more, it will be too late," Claude argued, "He is departing for the Vatican after Christmas, and once he is traveling we would never be able to catch him,"

"How about we break his neck," Lucien interjected, "we would place him at the side of the building-it would look like a fall."

"No bishop would be on the roof of Notre Dame," Marceau replied.

"But he might be on the stairs to the tower," Marie murmured," what if we suffocate him, and leave his corpse at the foot of the tower. It will seem like a fall, and if we must, we could break his bones to leave nothing to the imagination."

Claude thought.

"It seems like our only option," Marceau agreed.

"Then so it is," Claude nodded, "we will infiltrate the church after midnight mass. Marie and Luciano, you two will be responsible for distracting the guards away from the tower. I will watch the roof. Marceau, I will leave Blanchard to your hands."


	11. Chapter 10 Did

However, Claude did not leave Blanchard for Marceau.

Night swept over the city, and a shadow made its way through the alleys. It hid behind walls and under windows, with only a fleeting shade of blue remaining behind it, dragging in the snow.

It was a silent ascent.

Notre Dame was alone, her walls forgotten, her bells still. A shadow came to her, and it caressed her masonry. She felt it only faintly, a distant touch, but the presence was unmistakable.

She said nothing to the bishop.

As Blanchard walked the centre aisle, his eyes peered through the dim. The candles now low, their wicks only barely lit, he could see only shadows. Only silhouettes of saints and whispers of faith, but that did not hinder him. He strove forward, searching. Searching.

The dark followed.

Clutching his staff in one hand, the bishop reached the opposite forward. It stroked the stone, making the Church shiver. He smirked; his eyes were alight with secrets as he thrust a stone aside. The wall moved, and she groaned.

The bishop stepped forward.

Claude caught his shoulder.

"Be silent," he murmured, his grip becoming sharp. The bishop remained still, but his face churned in frustration. Then, it grew into mocking laugh.

"Assassin!" he yelled, his anger spilling over his words, "I knew this day would come!"

"No one can hear you," Claude responded, letting the bishop jerk away from his glove, "Only _la dame."_

"You are too late!" he spat, defacing the church, "The bet has been won, the dice cast!"

"You mean Napoleon?" Claude replied, his identity hidden in the shadow of his hood, his blue sash tumbling at his side.

"_Non_, he is unimportant now, yet to be sacrificed for the Father,"

Claude pressed forward, "What do you speak of, templar? Riddles are no use to you now,"

"Maybe not," he agreed, "but my staff is!"

Blanchard flung himself at Claude, the symbolic ornament in his hands now a weapon. Claude ducked away, his speed his advantage. Blanchard did not pause; he pressed forward, the long instrument swung ahead of him.

The crash of metal shattered in _la dame's_ ears, the staff colliding with the rigid stone. Claude's movements allowed him to dart back and forth from Blanchard's offense, but the power of his blows made Claude cautious. Blanchard roared, the rough sound scraping at the stone like fingernails. Again, the staff was swung only to miss its target and crash into the benches of the congregation, splintering the wood.

Claude's hand wove into his sash, searching for his dagger. It flashed as he withdrew it, the light glaring into the bishop's eyes and making him momentarily blind. Claude threw himself into the flurry of the staff, barely dodging the bishop's blind swings. The dagger thirsted for blood.

_La Dame_ wept, her body trembling.

They stopped, their heads both turning. The door the bishop had opened had begun to shut, and the movement rattled their bodies as the vibrations carried throughout the church. The bishop cried out, his hands dropping the staff. Claude hesitated, but then pursued the bishop as he scrambled to make his way through the doors.

Claude lunged forward.

The bishop reached for the door.

The dagger fell. And it drank.


	12. Chapter 11 Not

Its thirst quenched, Claude pulled his blade from the bishop's body. It salivated, blood dripping from its edge. Claude watched it fall to the floor.

"Stop him," the bishop moaned, his last words hoarse, "Stop him, or all is lost..."

Claude knelt to his body, his blade ready to put him to rest, but he hesitated, "Who? Who must I stop?"

"_La tour! La tour..._" he cried, his the words ringing in the knave.

The tower.

_La Dame_ heard him, and she echoed his words through her passages, the sound carrying high into the eaves, beyond Claude's ears.

To the tower.

Claude left the bishop and ran to the stairs. Tap, tap, tap, he ran. Their stone surface was smooth and brittle from the winter chill. Tap, tap, tap, Claude's boots fell as he climbed, the spiral disappearing above him. Tap, tap, tap, he ascended, passing the glass windows covered in snow.

Tap, tap, tap. The door appeared.

Claude reached the roof.

Beside him was not one, but two towers. He scanned them, his keen eyes dissecting their architecture. _La Dame_ stood still, nervous of what hid behind her walls.

The snow fell slowly, silently, secretly.

Claude saw nothing.

So he remained still, standing in the snow.

"Claude," mused a voice, softly entangled in the hushed air. Claude spun around.

Marie stood behind him, her hood upon her shoulders and her hair dancing in the wind.

"Claude," she repeated, her tone inviting him.

His eyes narrowed, "You should not have followed me."

"I was here all along," she whispered, the sound of her voice a weak note, "You just never noticed me,"

Claude remained silent, but his eyes were set on her.

"I have never failed you," she continued, drifting across the roof, "And I have never left you,"

Her body moved gradually, her hips following a rhythm Claude could not hear. He waited.

She approached.

"Leave your past," she whispered, her palm touching his cheek.

Her hands were gentle.

"Return to the present,"

His breathe mixed with hers.

"Come to me."

His lips touched hers, and the taste infected him. He threw himself against her, the force throwing her back. She clutched him, her hands crawling over him with enticing fingers. He let her seduce him, his hands gripping her hips. She left her parasite.

Marie injected her venom.

He pulled her to the tower, his hands thrusting her against the stone. He groped and kneaded her body, the hunger swelling inside him. The fire consumed him.

In a flurry of passion, Claude pinned her arms to the walls of the tower.

Claude felt a sting.

His eyes suddenly open, he followed her arm to her wrists, his hands thrusting them against the stone. And there lay the stinger.

A silver dagger.

Marie hissed in frustration as her hand dropped the blade, clattering onto the roof below. Claude recoiled from her, his palm bleeding and his breath suddenly caught.

No words fell from his lips, only from his eyes.

"So close," she seethed, her irises lit with a new flame, "If only I had struck sooner."

He looked down at the blade, the tip coated with his blood.

"Did you really believe," she mocked, her lips stretching into a smile, "that I loved you?"

He looked at the face, shimmering in the snow.

"I only love one man," she shouted, her voice suddenly strong and clear, "_Julien_! The man you killed! The man you murdered!"

Claude reached for the blade, his large fingers gently encircling the hilt. The movement was cold. It was forlorn.

Marie paused.

"He is alive,"

"What?"

"Alive,"

"That is impossible!" she yelled, her voice wavering, "He died many years ago, they never found any of those in the fire!"

"He was never in the fire," he argued, his voice overpowering hers, "He ran! He abandoned us! He betrayed us!"

"Lies!" she shrieked, tears falling down her eyes, "You killed him! You murdered him!"

"He killed himself, and took on a new name!" Claude retaliated.

"All lies!" she screamed, pulling a blade from her bosom.

"Marie!" Claude cried, but it was too late. She charged forward, the blade tightly wedged in her palm. Claude evaded her, but he did not return her blows.

"Listen to me, Marie! They lied to you! They want you to think he died," he pleaded as she pursued him, her strikes quick and precise. Claude became desperate, "Don't do this, Marie! Don't let them control you! Don't believe it!"

Tears fell from her eyes as she lunged at him. Her strikes became more spontaneous, her movements less predictable. Claude strained to avoid them, refusing to fight back. She paid no attention. She was blindfolded.

"Marie, listen to me!" he begged, his voice searching for the right words, "You can't do this! You must look past it, you must see through it!"

And with that, her arm raised for one final blow, the knife slicing down towards his neck.

He leaned back and pushed her aside, and she slipped. Her body fell, and Claude pulled back his arm, trying to make way for her to fall unharmed.

But his hand still clutched her silver blade, and the tip slashed across her white, slender neck.

Blood was drawn.

Claude watched in horror as her body fell, the neck artery severed and her blood escaping her body. She heaved, her hand instinctively reaching for her wound.

"No!" he wailed, falling to his knees. He lifted her slim body, her frame light and small. He quaked, his hands tenderly stroking her face, "No! No!"

Marie looked to Claude, and she shivered as her precious blood spilled from her neck. Her hand fell, and for a moment Claude saw her fear in her eyes, a terror beyond her years.

And then she went still.

The snow was red.

Claude hugged her body to his chest, tears running down her forehead into her blank eyes.

And then he felt it.

He felt him.

Molyneux.


	13. Chapter 12 Deserve It

Claude left the roof. And with it, he left Marie.

Her body was buried by the snow.

He descended the steps. His sash hung limply, a distant navy.

The secret door was open when he arrived. Claude looked at the entrance, his eyes diving deep into his mind. Then, it closed behind him and his image disappeared behind the stones.

The church went silent, _La Dame_'s final farewell.

The chamber was bare, and it was foreign. Stones laid by an age long ago, and Claude felt a fantastic power lying dormant; asleep. Lines and etchings marked the walls, glowing a strange, supernatural blue. Claude entered, and he saw him.

Molyneux.

Claude watched him turn, his face still familiar.

"Ah," Molyneux breathed, "I remember that face."

Jean stepped forward.

"Jean," he smiled, "It has been many, many years,"

Jean met his old eyes, their fire dimmed, but it was only brief.

Claude emerged.

"You have changed," Molyneux observed, his wrinkled hands caressing a golden sphere, "and so have I. Time has no mercy, does it?"

"Why are you here," Claude asserted, "Why did you come here tonight?"

"To claim what is mine," he replied, holding up the object, "What Napoleon refused to give me years ago, and what is now mine."

"The apple,"

"No, not the apple," Molyneux explained, "He has it with him, never lets it go. This is the Pomegranate."

"You see, boy, the apple is an illusion: a trick. The Pomegranate is different: it is power. It is no illusion, for with it I will become young and strong once more. Look, my age is already being drawn from my body and my youth restored."

Claude looked at his hands. The wrinkles had vanished.

"Come, have a taste, and you will be healed,"

"No," Claude refused, "It is still an illusion. You are still old, and so am I; that will never change."

"You are a fool, boy, as you were all those years ago."

"You are the one who has been fooled."

Molyneux paused.

"It will not heal you, as it will not heal me," Claude pursued, "It is only temporary, only a dream."

"Ha!" he laughed, a smirk on his face.

"Fight me," Claude challenged, "Without the Pomegranate; and we shall see who the fool is."

Molyneux chuckled, "You were always so fair, so noble." And with a flourish, he pulled a sword from his belt, "It is unfortunate that I am not the same."

Claude withdrew two blades. One was his dagger, and the other was Marie's silver blade.

Julien jumped, the Piece of Eden in his hand.

Fire.

The encounter was dynamic: his sword fell with the weight of stone and moved with the lightness of air. Claude strained to deflect the blows: the power behind them was surreal. He struggled, his muscles already strained from the previous battles. Molyneux's sword did not hesitate, and slashed across his thigh. Claude lost his balance. Blood.

Molyneux saw him falter and leapt forward. He thrust his blade in a mighty attack, but Claude managed to stumble away from death only to receive a clean cut along his forearm. Julien was amused, watching Claude flee from him, and pressed on. Again and again, Claude stumbled aside, only to be dealt more wounds.

But then Claude felt something tremble and quake, alive in his grasp.

He felt Marie's blade. It shook.

In a sudden jolt, Claude struck at Molyneux's hand. The general was caught by surprise, his prey now upon him. The knife carved out his wrist, and Julien howled. The pomegranate fell, and rolled away though the chamber along the bare tiles. Only Marie's silver blade was left in his hand, impaled deep into the palm.

The general thundered.

Rushing forward, Molyneux swung his sword at Claude's belly. The strike would have torn away organs if Claude had not thrown himself aside. Julien followed, and the sword was hurled towards him. However, the blood that oozed from his opposite hand made him start to stumble: to slip.

He wobbled, and Claude saw his chance.

Claude knocked away Molyneux's sword with his fist, the bones in the general's hand crumbling under the collision. Then he grabbed Molyneux's neck, squeezing the Adam's apple and lifting him off the ground. The general reached up his sword hand, trying to pry off Claude's hand, but the grip was too strong. It was too painful. It crushed bone.

The fire sputtered and crackled, desperate for air: reaching.

Then it went out, the flames stamped out. The throat collapsed. Claude let the body fall to the floor.

Molyneux was dead, but Claude only saw another corpse.

Standing silently, Claude remained.

Lucien found Marie, her small figure dusted with snow. Her pale skin was cold, but her blood was still warm. Lucien tenderly enveloped her body, pulling it to his chest, and held her. And in his sorrow, her body laid unresponsive.

The monks found the priest, his body sprawled across the aisle. The desecration horrified them all, and they signed the cross in fear, for his eyes were still wide open: their gaze stretched beyond earthly sights.

And Marceau found Molyneux. His body was placed on the altar at the small, parish church, his eyelids drawn over his eyes and his hands folded. He seemed at peace, lost in dreams, except for the small silver blade that was sunken into his hand.

No one found Claude.

Marceau searched Notre Dame, Claude's small hovel and all of Paris, but no trace was to be found. He had vanished, with no trail to follow. It was as if winter had taken him, the snowfall draping his footsteps and his shadow. Only a blue hue was left in the distance, lingering in the eyes of the assassins, and his existence faded with that winter. He became only a memory.

But the pomegranate was found. It was taken far from France and hidden by the assassins, tucked away in the ancient parts of the world. Some say it was never spoken of again, in fear that the templars would seek it out. A rumour said it was taken to Egypt, but the rumour died along with the recollection of the artefact.

Napoleon went to Russia, and was defeated. The snow buried him and his men, the winter their grave. The apple was lost, and Napoleon would only live to be destroyed on the plains of Waterloo by the English. He was later poisoned. Many believed it an act of revenge, a final punishment dealt by the templars. No one lived long enough to confirm it.

The snow had melted, and spring came to Paris.

* * *

**Thank you for reading this story and I hope that you have enjoyed it. May Claude find his purpose, and Paris heal from its wounds.**

**As a bonus, any reader who leaves a signed review shall receive a special bonus chapter for their efforts. I appreciate your comments and constructive criticism, and I am happy to answer any questions you may have. Thanks again, and until next time!**


	14. Bonus Chapter  Epilogue

Claude rode on a white mare, her coat sheen and silken.

It was the cusp of summer, and France flourished. The countryside was lush with foliage, the scent of leaves and grass heavy and the fragrance of flowers a permanent perfume. The heat was wonderfully timid under a soft breeze, and Claude's lungs soaked in the air.

Claude had grow older, but not in age. He swayed on the back of his young mare as it walked along the path, his eyes nurtured by the scenery. A tidal wave of blue still fell from his hip, drifting behind him.

The village he arrived at was no more than twenty families. It was remote, and the small stalls with fresh fruits and fish caused Claude's appetite to stir. Soon, he found himself drifting to the rise of a hill over the village, _avec une baguette et une pomme dans les mains. _He tore the baguette, the smell of fresh bread engulfing him.

As he ate, he listened to distant townsfolk. They went about their lives, chattering and pacing about between tasks and routine. It was a play: the wives and their husbands, the sellers and their customers, and...

Claude looked down, his eyes squinting at the visage below. There were no children playing in the street. The town lacked all childhood, and was empty of youth.

He finished his bread and took a sweet, juicy bite from his apple. As he did so, he saw a young woman slowly emerge from one of the houses. Her belly was swollen, stretched far beyond any normal size. Claude realized what hid beneath the swell and smiled. A child would soon run the street below.

Tossing the core away, Claude climbed onto his mare once again. She shook her head, protesting the short rest, but Claude wanted to move on. He didn't return to the town that night, either. He sought his rest in nature, alone.

Claude toured the coast and country of France, his direction never definite and his pace that of a traveler. He saw many towns, but none never struck him as much as the childless village of _Normandie_. He always dreamt of the child that was waiting to play inside its mother's belly. And as he saw the ocean, the rivers and the never ending fields of France, his mind always wove its way back to that village, and the hope it held.

August hung on Claude's shoulders, its heat causing his chest to sweat and his mare to carry the rich odour as well. He found the sun unpleasant, but it never burned him as the Arabic sun did long ago. His old garb traded for lighter clothing, only his blue sash remained of that winter many years ago.

The mare gladly trotted up a hill and Claude found himself headed towards the village again. He celebrated silently, excited to see the new child, and maybe more, on the streets. Yet, something also fell inside him, a lost memory he did not want to recall.

The sun leaned, its heat becoming fainter as evening drew close. Claude's mare began to trot less gaily, and began a sober walk with its ears pricked backwards. Claude felt it a wary chord, the air carrying a low, serious tone. It hung like smoke on his lungs.

And then he realized that it was smoke.

Yelling out a command, Claude kicked his horse to a gallop. She tossed herself against him, but another kick sent her rocketing forward, anxiety turned to speed. Claude bent forward over her neck, his eyes looking out for the village. The mare's head rocked back and forth.

Then he saw it.

The village flashed before him, no longer the quiet sanctuary it was years ago. It had fallen from fire, the buildings collapsed and the rippling heat a cloud around it.

Claude's horse reared, and he jumped from the saddle. He pulled out his old blade, and the mare danced away to the hill above the village.

Running forward, Claude searched the debris. The fire had gone out long before, only embers remained, but the damage was evident. Not only was the town destroyed, it was soundless.

Claude ran to the nearest building, "Hello! Hello! Is anyone there?"

Searching through the detritus, Claude found no one. He could smell it, the sick stench of burnt flesh, but he refused to stop. For hours he lifted boards, hurled stones and uncovered ground in a desperate hunt for bodies. He found nothing.

As the sun set, he stood in the middle of the street. His burns stung him, his hands were charred, and his face and body were smeared with charcoal. His eyes shook with a rough tide.

Climbing the hill, he sat near his mare. She had found a small spot in the grass, laying her body down to rest. He rested against her, her deep breathing soothing his aching body. He closed his eyes, though he knew he would find no rest.

"_Monsieur?"_

Claude shifted.

_"Monsieur!"_

Claude awoke, his eyelids dragging themselves open.

There sat a small girl, her dress smeared with the same black.

_"Quoi?"_ he asked himself, blinking away the illusion.

"_Monsieur," _her petite voice began, her small blonde curls drifting around her face, _"Est-ce que vous avez vu ma mere?"_

Claude looked at her, stunned, and she waited patiently, her small hands clutching his blue sash.

And in her eyes, he saw life.


End file.
